"Rosalina. Woman.
You constantly revile me with your singular lack of vision. Be aware,
there is an essential truth and beauty in all things. From the death
throes of a speared gazelle to the damaged smile of a freeway homeless.
But that does not mean that the invisibility of something implies its
lack of being. Though simpleton babies foolishly believe the person
before them vanishes when they cover their eyes during a hateful game of
peek-a-boo, this is a fallacy. And so it is that the unseen dusty build
up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists
also. This is unacceptable.
I will tell you this Rosalina, not as a taunt or a threat but as an
evocation of joy. The joy of nothingness, the joy of the real. I want
you to be real in everything you do. If you cannot be real, then a
semblance of reality must be maintained. A real semblance of the fake
real, or “real”. I have conquered volcanoes and visited the bitter
depths of the earth’s oceans. Nothing I have witnessed, from lava to
crustacean, assailed me liked the caked debris haunting that small
plastic soap hammock in the smaller of the bathrooms. Nausea is not a
sufficient word. In this regard, you are not being real.
Now we must turn to the horrors of nature. I am afraid this is
inevitable. Nature is not something to be coddled and accepted and held
to your bosom like a wounded snake. Tell me, what was there before you
were born? What do you remember? That is nature. Nature is a void. An
emptiness. A vacuum. And speaking of vacuum, I am not sure you’re using
the retractable nozzle correctly or applying the ‘full weft’ setting
when attending to the lush carpets of the den. I found some dander
there.
I have only listened to two songs in my entire life. One was an aria
by Wagner that I played compulsively from the ages of 19 to 27 at least
60 times a day until the local townsfolk drove me from my dwelling using
rudimentary pitchforks and blazing torches. The other was Dido. Both
appalled me to the point of paralysis. Every quaver was like a brickbat
against my soul. Music is futile and malicious. So please, if you
require entertainment while organizing the recycling, refrain from the
‘pop radio’ I was affronted by recently. May I recommend the recitation
of some sharp verse. Perhaps by Goethe. Or Schiller. Or Shel Silverstein
at a push.
The situation regarding spoons remains unchanged. If I see one, I will kill it.
That is all. Do not fail to think that you are not the finest woman I
have ever met. You are. And I am including on this list my mother and
the wife of Brad Dourif (the second wife, not the one with the lip
thing). Thank you for listening and sorry if parts of this note were
smudged. I have been weeping.
Your money is under the guillotine.
Herzog."
(Source: http://www.sabotagetimes.com/tv-film/werner-herzogs-note-to-his-cleaning-lady/)
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